“Charmant!” repeated the general. They all walked over to have a look at the hens’ castle.
Old Else greeted them and beside her stood the young architect, George. He and little Emilie met again after so many years—met in the henhouse.
There he stood, handsome enough to bear being looked at carefully. His expression was open yet determined. His face was framed by his black hair; at his mouth there played a smile, which said, “I know you, I know all about you!”
Old Else had taken her wooden shoes off and was standing in her stocking feet, in honor of her highborn guests. The hens clucked and the cock crowed; the ducks just waddled around and said: “Quack … quack!” But the delicate pale girl, his childhood friend, the general’s daughter—a faint tinge of pink touched her pale cheeks, and they took on the color of a rose petal. Her eyes grew large and her mouth spoke, without saying a word; and that greeting was the best that any young man could hope for from a young lady to whom he was not related and had never danced with. Emilie and the young architect had never been to the same ball.
The count shook George’s hand and presented him to the others. “My young friend, Mr. George, is not altogether a stranger.”
The general’s wife curtsied, and her daughter was just about to give George her hand, but then held back.
“Our little Mr. George,” said the general, “an old friend of the family. Charmant!”
“You have become an Italian!” exclaimed his wife. “I am sure you speak the language like a native.”
“My wife sings in the language, but she cannot speak it,” remarked the general.
At dinner, George sat on Emilie’s right, the general on her left; and it was he who had escorted her to the table. The general’s wife had entered on the arm of the count.
George talked and he talked well. He was the most brilliant and witty member of the party, although the count, when he wanted to be, was very charming. Emilie was silent, but her ears listened and her eyes sparkled.
After dinner they were alone together, out on the veranda, among the flowers. A hedge of roses hid them from the others. George spoke first. “Thank you for your kindness to my mother,” he began. “I know that you were with her the night that my father died. Thank you!” He grabbed Emilie’s hand and kissed it, which was quite proper considering the occasion. She blushed, pressed his hand, and looked at him with her big blue eyes.
“Your mother’s soul was filled with love. She cared so much for you! She let me read your letters to her and from them I know you. You were so kind to me when I was a child and gave me your drawings.”
“Which you tore up,” interrupted George.
“No, not all of them. I have the drawing of my castle yet.”
“Now I must build it, really,” George said, and became quite breathless.
Inside the castle the general and his wife also talked about the janitor’s son. They said that he had learned to carry himself well and spoke with both knowledge and education.
“He could become a professor,” said the general.
“He has esprit,” said his wife.
The young architect came often to the count’s castle that summer and, what is more, when he was absent he was missed.
“God has given you so much more than He gave the rest of us poor human beings,” said Emilie. “I hope that you appreciate it.”
George was flattered that the young girl admired him, and at such moments he found her very intelligent.
The general felt more and more uncertain about George being a “cellar” child. “His mother was a very respectable woman,” he often said, “and that is not a bad epitaph.”
Summer passed and winter came; and again they talked about Mr. George. He had been seen in the highest circles. The general had met him at a royal ball.
Now the general was giving a ball for little Emilie. Could Mr. George be invited? “Whom the king invites the general can also invite,” said the general, and straightened himself so much that he appeared a whole inch taller.
Mr. George was invited and he came; and princes and counts came; and each danced more elegantly than the other. But Emilie only danced once, her first dance; she stumbled and sprained her ankle. Not badly, but still you have to be careful; and therefore she sat the whole evening and watched the others dance. The young architect stood at her side.
“Are you making her a present of St. Peter’s?” asked the general as he passed and smiled as friendly as could be.
He had the same friendly smile on his face the next day when he received George. The young man had probably come to thank him for the invitation, what else could he have come for? But he hadn’t come to say thank you; he had come to make a most shocking, fantastic, quite insane proposal. The general could not believe his own ears. It was unthinkable! Mr. George had asked for little Emilie’s hand.
“My good man!” The general’s face was as red as a boiled lobster. “I don’t understand you. What is it you want? What are you saying? … I don’t know you! What do you mean, coming like this into my house, is it mine or is it not mine?” And with these words the general backed out of the room and went into his bedroom, where he turned the key in the lock. He had left George standing in the middle of the drawing room, and there the young man remained for several moments; then he turned and walked out. In the corridor he met Emilie.
“What did my father say?” she asked, and her voice quivered.
George took her hand. “He didn’t answer, he ran away from me. Don’t worry, a better moment will come.”
There were tears in Emilie’s eyes, but fortitude and courage in the young man’s. The sun shone in through the windows, and its rays fell upon them and gave them its blessings.
The general sat in his study. He was still boiling; as a matter of fact, he was boiling over. “Madness.… Insanity,” he muttered.
Not an hour had gone by before he told his wife all about it; and she asked Emilie to come to her room.
“Poor child,” she said. “It is an insult to you and an insult to us. I see you have tears in your eyes. I don’t blame you for crying, though they are becoming. You look as I did on my wedding day. Cry, Emilie, it helps.”
“I will,” she said. “If you and Father don’t say yes.”
“Child!” screamed the general’s wife. “You are sick; you have fever, you are delirious! Oh! I am getting my grand headache! What a misfortune has befallen our house! I will die from it! And then, Emilie, you will have no mother.” The general’s wife had tears in her eyes; she hated to think of her own death.
In the newspaper you could read in the list of appointments that Mr. George had become a professor: Fifth Rank class, Subdivision Number Eight.
“It is a shame that his parents did not live long enough to read this,” said the new janitor who now lived in the cellar below the general. They knew that the newly appointed professor had been born and brought up inside their four walls.
“Now he will have to pay rank tax,” said the husband.
“Isn’t that too much for a child of poor parents?” said the wife.
“Eighteen gold marks a year, that is a lot of money.” The janitor looked solemn as he mentioned the great sum the professor would have to pay in tax for his newly won rank at court.
“I don’t mean the money, I mean his success, his … elevation.” The good woman looked concerned. “The money is nothing, he can earn much more and probably will marry a rich girl. My good man, if we had a child, then he should be an architect too, and a professor.”
They talked kindly about George in the cellar; and they were talking well about him, too, on the second floor. The old count was visiting.
It was his childhood drawings they were discussing. They had talked about Moscow and then about the Kremlin, and then one of them had recalled the picture George had drawn of it for little Miss Emilie. He had given her so many pictures, but the count had remembered best the one called “Little Emilie’s Castle,” the one that had
titles under every window: “Here little Emilie sleeps.” “Here little Emilie plays.”… “Here little Emilie dances.”
“The young professor is a very intelligent man,” said the count. “He will become an adviser to the king before he dies. Maybe he will build a castle for the young lady, why not?”
“That was a strange thing to say,” commented the general’s wife when the count had left. Her husband shook his head and went for a ride, followed by his groom, and looking prouder than ever on his high horse.
It was little Emilie’s birthday, and no end of flowers, books, letters, and visiting cards arrived. The general’s wife kissed her on her mouth and the general on her forehead, for they were affectionate parents.
Guests arrived, very highborn guests, including two princes from the royal family. They conversed about the latest balls and theater performances, about Danish diplomacy abroad and the state of the country and its government. Then they went on to talk about ability and talent, and soon they were talking about the young professor, the architect.
“He is building an immortal name,” someone said.
“I have been told that he is building his way right into one of our first families,” remarked another.
Later in the day when they were alone, the general repeated the words. “One of our first families.” And then he asked his wife, “Which one did they mean?”
“I know whom they were hinting at,” she answered, “but I will not say it, I will not even think it. God wills, but it would surprise me.”
“Oh well, let it surprise me too, for I haven’t an idea who it could be,” said the general, and looked thoughtful.
Powerful is the man whom God has favored; and powerful, too, is he whom the king favors; and George was favored by both.… But we mustn’t forget Emilie’s birthday party.
Her room was filled with flowers from all her friends. On the table lay beautiful gifts, but none from George. He could not send her one, but he would be remembered without it, for everything in the house reminded her of him. Even in the closet on the way up the stairs, where the sand was kept, there bloomed a forget-me-not. It was there that she had hid when she set fire to the curtains, and George had arrived and saved the house from burning. A glance out the window and there was the acacia tree. True, it had no flowers or leaves on it now. Frost covered its bare branches, and through them the moon was shining, making the tree look like coral. Always changing and always constant in its change, it was the tree under which George had shared his sandwiches with her.
Out of a drawer she took the drawing of the castle of the czar, and then the one of her own castle. Remembrances from George; and as she looked at them other memories came. She thought of the night when his mother died, how—unbeknown to her parents—she had sat by her bedside and heard her last words. “A blessing! … George.” The mother had thought of her son, but now Emilie interpreted the words in her own way. George had not been forgotten on her birthday; he had been there.
The next day there was another birthday, the general’s. He had been born the day after his daughter; that is, quite a few years earlier, about four decades. Again presents arrived, and among them was a costly saddle, comfortable and handsome. The only person the general knew who had one like it was a prince.
Who could have given the saddle to him? The general was very excited. A little note had been enclosed. Now had there been written: “Thank you for yesterday …” or something like that, the general might have been able to guess who his well-wisher was; but it only said: “From one whom the general does not know.”
“Who in the world don’t I know?” said the general. “Why, I know everybody!” And through his mind the whole court passed in review. “It is from my wife!” he exclaimed. “She is always flirting, the little coquette.”
But she didn’t flirt any more; that time had passed.
Again there was a party; it was not at the general’s, but at the home of a prince. It was a costume ball, at which masks were also allowed.
The general arrived dressed up as Rubens: Spanish attire, with a lace ruff, rapier, and a firm bearing. His wife was Madame Rubens: a black velvet dress, buttoned up to the neck, with an enormous ruff collar, the size of a millstone; she was terribly hot. Their costumes had been copied from a Dutch painting which the general owned. It was especially the hands in the painting that everyone admired; they resembled those of the general’s wife.
Emilie was Psyche, dressed in silk, white muslin, and lace. Light as swan’s-down, she floated through the room. She didn’t need any wings, but she wore them because she was Psyche.
It was a brilliant and magnificent ball. There were so many candles burning, so much richness and good taste, so much to look at, that no one had time to look at Madame Rubens’ beautiful hands.
A man dressed as a black domino, with an acacia flower attached to his hood, danced with Psyche.
“Who is he?” asked the general’s wife.
“His Royal Highness,” replied the general. “I could recognize him by his handshake.”
His wife said that she doubted it, but General Rubens was so certain that he was right that he walked up to the black domino, held up his own hand, and wrote in it, with one of his fingers, His Royal Highness’ initials. The domino shook his masked head and looked away; but he said pointedly: “I am one whom the general does not know.”
“But then I do know you!” exclaimed General Rubens. “You are the one who gave me the saddle.”
The black domino raised his hand. What he meant by that movement was hard to tell. Then he disappeared among some dancers.
“Who is the black domino that you danced with, Emilie?” asked the general’s wife.
“I didn’t ask his name,” answered her daughter.
“You didn’t ask who he was because you knew it! It is the professor!” Turning to the old count, the general’s wife said: “Your protégé is here. He is dressed as a black domino and has an acacia flower in his hood.”
“It is possible,” said the count, and smiled. “But one of the princes is wearing the same costume.”
“I know him by his handshake,” repeated the general. “I am so sure that the prince is the one who gave me the saddle that I dare go right up to him now and invite him to my house.”
“Why don’t you?” asked the count. “If it is the prince, then he will come.”
“And if he is the other one, he won’t!” The general looked determined as he approached the black domino, who was conversing with the king. Most respectfully, the general invited the young man to visit him in his home, so that they might learn to know each other better. The general smiled; so little doubt was there in his mind that he was speaking to the prince that he did not lower his voice but spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear him.
The black domino lifted his mask. It was George. “Will the general be so kind as to repeat his invitation?” he asked.
The general drew himself up a whole inch, took two steps backward and one step forward, as if he were going to dance a minuet. He looked so serious and proud that in spite of his delicate features his face did have a general’s expression. “I never go back on my word, the professor is invited.” He bowed a little stiffly and glanced toward the king, who probably had overheard all that had been said.
Now there was a dinner party at the general’s; only the old count and his protégé had been invited.
“My foot is under the table, that is as good a foundation to build on as any,” thought George. And the foundation really was laid that evening during that very formal dinner.
George had come; and—as the general had expected—he conversed like someone who belonged to the best society. His stories he told so brilliantly that the general had had to say “Charmant!” several times in a row. Later the general’s wife had talked freely about that evening, and had even mentioned it to her most noble and most intellectual friend at court. This lady in waiting had begged to be invited when next they entertained the
professor. There was no way out of it; he would have to be invited once more. He came and was again “charmant!” And on top of all that, he could play chess.
“He is not really from the cellar,” explained the general. “His father was highborn, that sort of thing is not uncommon, and certainly not the young man’s fault.”
The professor who was invited to the king’s palace could come from now on to the general’s house. But he must not take root; that was the general’s opinion, although no one in the whole town shared it.
He did take root, and he grew. By the time he became a councilor of state Emilie was already his wife.
“Life is a tragedy or a comedy,” said the general. “In the tragedy they die; and in the comedy they get each other.”
In this story they got each other and three sons besides; but not right away. The sweet little children rode their hobbyhorses through the rooms of their grandfather’s and grandmother’s home. The general rode one too, rode behind the three little sons of the king’s councilor; he was their groom. His wife sat on the sofa and smiled, even when she had her “grand headache.”
George became someone of great importance. He rose even higher than I have told you; if he hadn’t, the story of the janitor’s son would not have been worth telling.
128
Moving Day
In the old times, people used to move once a year; that is, not everybody, or there wouldn’t have been carts and horses enough to carry all the furniture, but those who wanted to move. For all the leases signed by people who didn’t have houses of their own, but had to rent them, began on the same day in the year. It was printed on the calendar and it was called Moving Day.
Do you remember the night watchman Ole who lived in the tower? I have told you about two of my visits to him; now I will tell about the third one, and it won’t be the last. I usually visit him around New Year, but this time it was on Moving Day. All the streets of the town were filled with rubbish: broken pots and rags, not to speak of the straw that the poor people used in their beds instead of mattresses. In this profusion of garbage, I found two little children playing. They were making believe that they were going to sleep in the old straw, and they had a filthy rag for covers. They said that that was having fun, but it was too much for me, and that was why I went up to visit Ole.